Ballroom Tango
by Nutmeg44
Summary: There's always dancing in a ballroom. Theirs is a special kind of dance.


A/N Hi! I'm still alive. I'm sorry for being absent. _Rebirth_ is still not abandoned. Life and an absent muse make writing difficult but I'm trying to get back into it. I just signed up to write in LiveJournal's Smutty_Claus 2016 gift exchange (to get back into the writing thing) and realized that I hadn't posted this story here. So, this is my amends to you. Written for **harry_lover88** for Smutty_Claus 2015. Enjoy!

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 **Ballroom Tango**

He was there, across the room next to the bar, sipping from a tumbler.

She was standing next to the Christmas tree at the perimeter of the ballroom.

They always met like this. It was becoming a tradition.

They embraced the imagined anonymity of the masks; of the masquerade.

Everyone wears a mask but no one needs one. They all know each other here, a product of the Post-War world. There is no mystery. For them the masks add to the mystery but they never acknowledge it. Not in the real world.

This game they play only works here. Only here, at the Ministry's Annual Christmas Masquerade.

He was Megan Jones' plus one. She was the guest of one of her brothers. Or, maybe it was her father. She never bothered to check anymore.

Her attendance was practically mandatory at this point. It felt more like a job. Except, it wasn't her job.

She was a Harpy, an excellent one at that.

He was a Healer, retained by the League.

They saw each other frequently in a professional capacity but never like this – there were rules. _Fraternizing between staff and players is strictly forbidden - resulting in immediate dismissal._

This was all they had - once a year, across a garishly decorated ballroom, hiding behind masks and whispers.

They would circle each other, never getting too close. They would make the rounds, mingle with the guests, catch up with friends and classmates of the past, many of them mutual, but never each other. At least not yet.

She walked to the left, stopping to talk to Ernie McMillian and Susan Bones. They just got engaged. She offers her congratulations. They seem pleased by that.

Perhaps it's because she's technically a celebrity now. Quidditch star. There's a certain cache to being friends with a celebrity. They never spoke to her at Hogwarts and that was fine. But now she had to make the rounds. Wear the mask. Keep up the appearances.

She smiles sweetly and excuses herself, moving on to the next mingling group. This group is more interesting, a mix of Slytherins and Ravenclaws – Blaise Zabini, Luna Lovegood, Theo Nott and Lisa Turpin. They seem drunker than is appropriate for this early in the night.

As she approaches Luna, her long-time friend, she can feel the eyes of the others on her, half in appreciation, half in disdain. Blaise Zabini, Luna's affianced is probably most appreciative. She can feel his gaze resting in less than appropriate places. She wonders if Luna knows of her beaus wandering eye. Glancing at Luna she sees that she notices but doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she seems pleased. Maybe that's a thing between them. Looking back, Luna was always a little more affectionate with her…a little more _tactile_.

Nott's thumb caresses the skin on her exposed lower back as they exchange genteel hugs. It sends a shiver down her spine. He notices her reaction with a smirk. She wishes _He_ were the cause. Nott holds her close, closer than polite and a second too long. It would be delicious if it were _Him_. But it's not. _Yet_

They make their pleasantries and she moves on.

She searches the room again for _Him_ but she seems to have lost him in the crowd.

Then she spots him, near the band platform, talking to Neville.

He's closer to the exit. She checks the time; still too early. Too soon. She needs another drink.

She watches him as he moves next to Romilda and Harry – the Newlyweds. Romilda seems overly friendly, Harry pulls her close. _He_ makes joke she can't hear and both Harry and Romilda laugh. The small group clinks their glasses together and then he moves on. He looks directly at her and she can feel the heat coming from his eyes, behind his mask.

Heat pools in her belly.

Being this close to him, close enough to touch, on their special night, is too much.

She passes the bar, gets another glass of wine and continues the rounds - continues playing at being social.

They are approaching the same group now. There is no way to avoid the encounter. Her heart is beating fast in her chest and her skin heats up. She's not sure she can survive the encounter. Her knickers certainly won't. They've been soaked through for the last hour and a half – ever since she saw him dancing with Cho Chang, his large hand resting a little too low, his strong arms holding her a little too close.

Why was that a turn-on, she doesn't know. It just was.

He reaches the group first; Dean greets him congenially. They both work for the League. Dean is a trainer. But it's their mutual history with the Gryffindor Quidditch Team that really bonds them, even if _He_ was a terrible Keeper.

She approaches next. The reception is even warmer. She suspects it's the dress. She wore it for him. It's just the right side of appropriate, with more skin showing than her mother would like, but she knows he likes. She saw it on his face when she just walked in. His reaction is the same now with his gaze jumping from the column of her neck to the sweetheart neckline to the slit up her left leg…all the way up her leg. The dress is literally being held to her body by magic.

She hugs Dean first, then Seamus, then Zacharias Smith. They are all flying solo tonight. The sexual frustration is almost palpable. When Seamus' hand lingers a little too long at her back she hears _His_ breath catch. Good! She wants him as wound up as she is.

They make polite conversation but it is laced with innuendo. They never break eye contact even when talking to the others. They don't notice because they are staring at her too. After an appropriate time, they both leave the group, moving in opposite directions. The never look back.

It's almost time, their time. Based on the dancing taking place on the dance floor, everyone is intoxicated. No one will remember tonight, which is a blessing.

She's finally approaching the Exit; he has already left the ballroom. She makes her way to the bank of lifts, destination Department of Mystery. The location adds to the intrigue.

Her stilettos clack against the tile. She tries not to run but the desire is too great. The split in her dress flaps behind her, leaving nothing to the imagination. She stands in front of the lift furthest from the party. The doors are covered in mirrors.

She inspects her reflection. Her jewel-toned blue dress sparkles in the light from the wall sconces. He loves blue on her. She learned that in June at the League Awards Banquet.

She adjusts her mask and fixes the feathers attached to it. Her hair flows down her back in waves; he likes it like that - likes to be able to run his fingers through it. She learned that last Christmas. After their encounter she had a difficult time explaining her hairstyle change to her mother.

The lift doors open and she steps in; the interior is covered in mirrors as well – the Ministry did some upgrades since the last time she was here.

She's keeps facing the back of the lift, trying to get her breathing under control. She is so wound up she almost can't stand it. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath just as the lift doors close behind her.

It's then that she hears the Emergency stop button engage and feels fingers graze her spine. She practically melts.

His breath is warm on the back of her neck as he steps up behind her. His right hand spans her stomach pressing her back against him as his lips make contact with her neck. His lips are warm and soft, the tip of his tongue peeking out to taste her. That causes a moan. It mixes with his name, "Cormac". She doesn't open her eyes. She knows his touch anywhere, has been waiting for this all night.

With his left hand he shifts her hair over her shoulder allowing himself better access to her neck and her pulse point.

His kiss is less delicate this time, he bites and nibbles in between kisses. Moisture pools between her legs. She lets out another moan, this time louder.

She is now completely pressed again him, the fabric of his robes rough against her bare back. The feeling causes tension between her legs. She rubs her thighs together to alleviate the pressure. It doesn't work. She needs more.

His left hand holds her hip, pressing her against him. She feels his length pressing right between her buttocks. He is impossibly hard. Another stream of moisture floods between her legs, running down her thigh. She needs him now. This is becoming torturous. He knows what she needs but he enjoys drawing it out.

Her next moan is a mixture of moan, whine and whimper. She grounds herself against him to release some of the pressure. He chuckles, stilling her movements with the hand on her hip.

His lips go lower now, nipping at the point where her neck meets her shoulder. His bite is hard and her knees buckle. His hand on her stomach keeps her upright before it begins its exploration. She opens her eyes to look at their reflection in the mirror. His head is buried in her neck, his strong arm pressing her against him. She can see the veins in his hand prominently, his long fingers splayed across her stomach - piano player's hands. She knows what those fingers can do. She found that out last year. He brought her to orgasm with them alone. She looks back at his head and their eyes meet. The fire in them is blazing. Never breaking eye contact, his hands start moving.

The hand on her stomach starts climbing higher, passing over her chest. It squeezes one breast before moving to the next, releasing it from the confines of her dress. He squeezes her breast then tweaks her nipple. Her eyes close involuntarily, breaking the eye contact. Her breathing is heaving, her chest heaving under his touch.

His left hand has not been idle. Where his right has been occupied with her chest, his left was directed further south. The hand on her hip slipped behind the split in her dress to cup her mound, the thin scrap of satin wet to his touch. He snaps the thin string holding it together and it falls to the floor. There is no barrier between his questing hand and her wet centre.

The hand at her breast moves higher, gripping her throat. He kisses his way back up to her neck and whispers in her ear, "You're so wet for me," before biting her earlobe. The hand in her dress gave her quim a companionate pat, before delving deeper. She was rubbing herself against his questing fingers trying to get contact to relieve the pressure. He inserted one finger in a smooth thrust before adding a second. After a few agonizingly slow thrusts he added a third.

The pace was slow and her whimpering spoke to her unsatisfied state. She tried moving faster, to hit the spots that made her weak but he was in complete control.

"Have you been waiting for this all night?" His fingers plunged. She whimpered.

"I saw you with Nott and then Finnegan." _Thrust. Whimper._

"I imagined myself fucking you, with them watching, your head thrown back in ecstasy, them looking on in envy." _Thrust. Whimper._

He gripped her chin, holding her head straight. His face was still next to hers, his eyes locked on her face in their reflection.

"Look at yourself."

She forced herself to open her eyes, to fight the desire to close them again. When he was sure she would keep looking he used that hand to shift her dress, giving them a clear view of his probing fingers.

Her legs were spread wide, her hair dishevelled, her mask tilted, her skin pink from desire, with her breasts exposed and nipples tightly puckered. She looked hedonistic. It was sexy. This was what he did to her. He knew what he wanted and she gave it willingly, joyfully.

His fingers plunged faster and she lost the strength to keep her eyes open, grinding against his palm trying to make him go deeper. Her head fell back against his shoulder and he could feel her orgasm building, the vice around his fingers tightening.

He dropped her dress and used his free hand to release his bulging erection. Shifting her dress completely to the side he replaced his fingers with his cock with one swift motion earning a loud moan for his efforts. He gave himself a moment to adjust to the feeling of her before pounding into her from behind. Her moans became shrieks and screams of, "More, please, don't stop, harder".

He pushed her against the mirror; her breasts pressed flat against it. He gripped her hips tighter and pounded her harder. Her orgasm was building and pulling his to the surface. The feeling was torture…ecstasy. He wanted it to last, needed it to last. After tonight they could not be like this again for a year.

Her orgasm exploded out of her with a shriek that bounced off the lift mirrors pulling his with it. With a heave they collapsed against the mirror, exhausted and out of breath. After a moment they separated and she turned to face him for the first time since they set foot in the lift.

She righted herself as best she could, given the circumstances, and he did the same, never taking their eyes off each other.

"I have to go, Megan will be wondering where I am," he said finally.

She nodded.

He held her chin staring into her eyes before brushing her lower lip with his thumb.

"Until next year, Ginny," he whispered, then gave her a soft kiss.

He released the emergency stop button of the lift. When the doors opened he turned and left.

Ginny waited a few minutes, gathered her composure then left the lift and returned to the ballroom.

Until next year.

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 _Thanks for reading. Please review!_


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